Two can play.
"We were thinking," he paused.
I could see the new seven-series Beemer: Midnight blue, black leather interior, working air conditioning. I had tried on an Armani suit once, just for fun. A perfect 46-long. I could feel the cool, silk-lined sleeves on my arms. I would get blue - no gray pinstripe. A Cremieux patterned tie. A custom-made shirt, monogrammed cuffs.
Then, Trey muttered something. It didn't sound right. "Excuse me?" I said.
He replied, "I said, '$2,500 a month.'"
The blood pounded in my head. I know I stopped breathing because I was dizzy after about 30 seconds. "Trey, that's half of what I make right now in the Army."
"I know, Max. It's only for a trial basis. In about a year, we can make adjustments, depending on how your career progresses."
I tried to keep my voice measured. "Let me get this straight. There might be a bad connection, and I don't want to offend you."
"Oh no, Max," he said, "clarity is paramount in these situations."
I took a breath. "You want me to come work for one of the most prestigious law firms in the South, and you intend to pay me $30,000 a year?"
Trey's laugh startled me. A high-pitched snicker - like a pre-pubescent boy. "My, oh my, Max," Trey said, "you are laboring under a most egregious misapprehension here."
I waited.
"We had no intention of offering you a job. Truth be told, we never considered you at all. Father only interviewed you as a favor to Annabelle."
"Then, what are we discussing?"
"Your monthly support payments to Annabelle, of course. Her parents requested we draw up papers for a legal separation."
"Fuck you, Trey," I said. "We're not getting a divorce." I hung up before he could respond.
Chapter 77
After Trey's call, I had trouble sleeping. So, I watched Sponge Bob reruns to help me unwind. As I nodded off, my phone rang. A ringing phone at one in the morning hardly ever brings good news.
"Sorry to bother you so late," Rose said, "but this is important."
I flicked on the light and sat up in my bed. "What's up?"
"Specialist Strickland called me a few minutes ago," she said.
"Specialist Strickland? How did he get your number?"
"From my blog. He's been following the story."
"What did he want?"
"He said he has information that will help Jefferson. He wants to meet with you."
"Seriously? In the middle of the night?" I rubbed my eyes. "I don't think so."
"Max, he said it could save Jefferson's life."
I thought for a moment. If there was even a small chance that Strickland could help Jefferson, I'd take the risk. "Alright," I said, "where does he want to meet?"
"His motel room. He's staying at the Coral Inn, off of Montana Avenue, Room 15."
"No way. That sounds like a setup. I'll meet him somewhere private."
"Name the place, and I'll bring him there."
"Okay. Go get him," I said. "I'll call you in a few with the meeting location." I hung up with Rose and called Reggie.
"What does this asshole have to gain by helping my son?" Reggie asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "But it's worth looking into."
"Meet me outside of your motel in 30," he said and hung up.
I pulled a map from my rental car. It covered Southwest Texas and had blowups of El Paso and Juárez. While I waited for Reggie to pick me up, I searched for a secluded meeting spot. Over 1.3 million people lived in Juárez, so finding a private area was challenging. I chose the sprawling Chamizal Federal Public Park because it was less than a mile from the border and had small picnic areas scattered throughout. I called Rose and gave her the location.
Twenty minutes later, Reggie picked me up at my motel. His Escalade burned rubber as we headed toward the Bridge of the Americas and into Mexico. The early morning crossing was uneventful. The border security waved us through.
Reggie steered the Escalade deep into the park and stopped in a gravel lot next to a picnic shelter. When he killed the ignition, it was pitch black, like the inside of a cave. We sat and waited in silence. No chit chat. No radio. The only noise was Reggie's stomach. It sounded like two feral cats were fighting to the death inside of him. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness, lights appeared in the distance, and a beat-up white Nissan Sentra lurched toward us. It wasn't Rose. She drove a Honda Civic. Without the slightest hesitation, Reggie slid a Glock .9 mm from his shoulder holster.
He slapped my shoulder with the back of his hand and pointed. "Grab the piece from the glovebox." I followed his orders. Using the dim illumination from the glovebox, I made sure the Ruger .38 Special Revolver was loaded. It was. "You know how to use that?" Reggie narrowed his eyes as he scanned his surroundings.
"Reggie, I'm in the Army."
He snorted. "Yeah, but you're a goddamn desk jockey."
"Fuck you." I cocked the pistol's hammer. "I've been shooting since I was 10."
"Just checking."
The lights from the Nissan illuminated our faces as it drew nearer. It was no more than a baseball throw away. Reggie turned the key in the ignition and revved the Cadillac's 345 horsepower engine. "This city's a war zone," he said. "Shit can go bad real fast." He flipped on the high beams and shifted into Drive. Suddenly, the Sentra stopped. Out of the shadows, a figure walked toward it and got into the passenger side. As soon as the door closed, the car drove off the way it came.
"What was that about?" I said.
"Probably a hooker. No sweat."
Five minutes later, Rose's Honda parked alongside the Escalade with Strickland in the front seat. Reggie hopped out and lunged toward Strickland's door in an impressive show of agility and speed, especially considering his size and age. He snatched the door open, nearly ripping it off the hinges. Reggie jammed his pistol into Strickland's chest and said, "Get out."
Strickland's skeletal body flailed like a rag doll having a seizure as Reggie yanked him out of the car. "I'm trying to help you," Strickland hollered.
"Shut the fuck up," Reggie said as he slammed Strickland, face-first, into the Escalade's hood. Reggie holstered his pistol and frisked Strickland from top to bottom. He pulled a cheap flip-phone from Strickland's jacket and crushed it with his shoe.
"What the fuck?" Strickland said. "That's my phone." Reggie ignored him as he continued his search. Aside from the phone, Strickland carried a Velcro Army wallet, a military ID, three dollars, and a Trojan Magnum condom. Reggie tossed Strickland's wallet on the ground. Then, he opened the Escalade's back door.
"Get in," he said, nudging Strickland. Reggie and I climbed into the back, sandwiching Strickland between us.
"Who knows you're here?" I asked Strickland.
"Nobody," he said. "I mean nobody except for you guys and th...th..."
"The what?" I asked.
"That, that, that broad that drove me," Strickland said with a smirk.
Reggie removed his toothpick. "What's so funny?"
"Homie, that bitch is smoking. Maybe she'll let us take turns."
Without warning, Reggie's massive hand clamped Strickland's testicles like a gator locking on a raw T-bone.
"Ahhh," Strickland shrieked.
Reggie twisted like he was wringing a wet mop. "Show some respect, redneck." Then, he let go.
"I'm just playin'," Strickland said, as he doctored his gonads.
"Specialist Strickland," I said, "we don't have all night. Does Paine or anyone else know you're here?"
"Nah." He shook his head.
"What the fuck do you want?" I asked him.
"I know what happened to Nassar," he said.
"You know who killed him?"
"No. But I know who made his camel-ridin' ass disappear." Strickland chuckled. An awkward, nervous chuckle.
"Go on," I said.
"Like I said in court. I worked the front desk, the night shift. Nobody came or went without me knowin'. Man, I seen it all.
Night is when the action happened. They always came at night, like cockroaches."
"Who's they?" Reggie said to him.
"The OGA boys, man. Scary fuckin' dudes. It was ugly. I seen it all - every single disgustin' thing they did."
I thought I found a hole in his story. "Strickland, didn't the OGAs work in the VIP interrogation rooms?"
"Yep."
"How did you see what the OGAs were doing if you were at the front desk?"
Strickland hesitated. Reggie poked him in the ribs. "Spit it out, boy."
Strickland's hands covered his crotch, anticipating another assault. "Let's just say, a few of us knowed some places where we could, ah, relax."
"What does that mean?" I said.
"Get high. I ain't proud of it, but it is what it is. Up in the vents. That's where I'd go. You know, where the air moves around."
"The ductwork?" I said.
"Yeah, the ducks. No one ever looked there."
I didn't bother correcting him. It was all clear now. "And you could see what was happening below in the interrogation rooms?" I asked.
"Yup." He nodded.
"You saw what happened to Nassar?"
"Sure as Mary was a virgin. They tore that man up?"
"Was it my son, Tyler?" Reggie asked.
"No. It was a scary-ass dude. Don't know his name, but he was always wearing cowboy boots. Fancy ones. You know, the kind with the silver toes. He was with the OGA's."
I glanced at Reggie. He nodded at me as he chewed on his toothpick. "Why am I hearing this for the first time?" I said. "You just testified, and you made no mention of this."
Strickland shrugged with one shoulder. "Nobody asked." He had a point. Paine didn't ask him about the OGA's.
"So why now?" I said.
"That prick double-crossed me," Strickland said.
"What prick?" Reggie asked.
"That cocksucker in charge."
"Colonel Paine, the prosecutor?" I said.
"Yeah." Strickland nodded. "He said 'cause I fucked up, the deal's off."
"What deal?" Reggie asked.
"He said if I helped him, he'd get me VA disability, ya know, for my PTSD."
"PTSD, my ass," Reggie said. "Boy, I know a junkie when I see one."
Strickland hung his head. "It's a disease, man. I need help."
Reggie and I were unmoved. "Did he put this deal in writing?" I asked.
"No."
Of course not.
"So, why did he break this deal?"
"Paine said I fucked up his case. That my testimony sucked, and the jury hated me. He was real pissed about the uniform thing. I told 'em, 'I said what you told me to say.' That's when he said, 'There's no deal.' I didn't know what to do, so I called my Uncle Ray, my mother's brother, and he told me I was a dumb ass for not gettin' the deal in writin'. That's when I thought I got hosed. So, I went to the prosecutor's office after court. That Jew bitch lawyer was the only one there."
Strickland protected his family jewels as he peered sideways at Reggie. He never saw my fist before it slammed into his solar plexus. As Strickland gasped for air, Reggie grabbed him by the throat and said, "Boy, get to the fuckin' point, quick, or we're leavin' your ass here, in cartel country. And good luck makin' it across the border without your wallet."
"Sorry about the Jew slur," Strickland said. "I was just sayin' that she was all friendly two, three days ago when she was tellin' me what to say, but now she's all, 'No one promised you nuthin',' and shit like that. That's when I figured out I ain't gettin' a deal."
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him close to me. "What does any of this have to do with Jefferson?"
"I wanna fuck that prosecutor up," he said. "I want your guy to walk."
"Hard for me to believe you're switchin' sides out of the blue, even if you want to mess with Paine," Reggie said.
"Well." Strickland rubbed his thumb and index finger together. "A little appreciation goes a long way, ya know." There it was.
"How much appreciation?" Reggie asked.
"Not much," Strickland said. "Ya know, I'm gettin' outta the Army soon. Momma's got the bad sugar. I ain't got paid recently 'cause of a little misunderstandin'."
"You mean your AWOL?" I said.
"Yeah, that," Strickland said dismissively. "I need a little cash 'til my disability kicks in."
This poor sap wasn't going to get disability. Folks with Dishonorable Discharges don't qualify for benefits.
"How much?" Reggie asked.
"I figure three large, plus a new phone."
That did it. "Fuck you, Strickland," I said. "We're not buying your testimony."
"Counselor." Reggie pointed out the window. "Why don't you step outside and get some air. I need to have a discussion with this soldier." It was not a request. I got out and closed the door. A few minutes later, I heard a knock on the window. When I crawled into the back seat, Strickland was grinning.
"So, tell us, Mr. Strickland," Reggie said, "what are you going to testify about tomorrow?"
"I'm gonna hook ya boy up," he said. "I'll tell the world about how the prosecutor made me lie and how he promised me bennies."
"Go on," Reggie said.
"I'm gonna tell them about how I seen that guy with the boots, that OGA, how he ass-kicked that Muslim motherfucker. Waterboarded him too. That's some nasty-ass shit. He's a mean sumbitch."
The moment of truth. "Did Jefferson kill Nassar?" I asked.
"Hell no, man. Those OGA fuckers disappeared him."
"What does that mean?"
"I heard 'em talkin' one day after they'd stomped that Tali's ass. They said one of our 'boys' needed to come home."
"Boys?"
"Yeah. Like a prisoner or somethin'. Said he needed to come home, and that Tali was their ticket."
"Go on."
"Next night, they bring in Doc Needham. He takes a syringe and jabs it in Al Whatshisname's leg. Damn camel jockey sat up like someone stuck a 220 line up his ass."
I looked at Reggie and said, "Epinephrine?"
Reggie nodded. "Yeah, sounds like it."
"Anyhow," Strickland said, "it juiced that guy up so much he walked out the door. Doc Needham was right behind him."
I pointed my finger in Strickland's face." How much of this is true?"
"All of it. I swear."
"This is important," I said. "After they took him out of Sangar Prison, did you ever see Hamza Nassar again?"
"No, siree." Strickland shook his head. "That boot-wearin' joker came back a few times, but that A-rab disappeared."
To be sure, we went over the whole thing again. We told Strickland to tell the truth about his drug habit and to take responsibility for his previous lies. At four o'clock in the morning, we cut Strickland loose. He got into Rose's car, and they drove off. Reggie was hungry, so we stopped at La Pecadora, "The Sinner," an all-night taco truck where we got an early breakfast before our last day of testimony. After we finished eating, Reggie dropped me off at my motel. Walking toward my room, I couldn't shake the nagging thought of what would happen if Strickland's testimony fell apart in front of the jury.
Chapter 78
The next morning, I entered the courtroom and found Paine sitting on his desk with his arms crossed. As our eyes locked, Paine stood and shouted, "You. In the judge's chambers, now." His face was as red as a maraschino cherry.
I took my time unpacking and then faced Paine. "What's this about?"
"This." Paine's hand clenched a stack of papers.
"I cannot see what you're holding, and I'm not a mind reader."
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about, O'Donnell. Follow me. That's an order." Paine stormed off toward Gianelli's chambers with me in tow. He barged in without knocking. "We have a problem," he said, waving the papers in Gianelli's face.
Instinctively, Gianelli's left arm swiped upward, knocking the papers from Paine's hand. Simultaneously, Gianelli cocked his right fist. I waited with anticipation for the judge to pu
nch Paine in the face. It didn't happen. Gianelli slowly lowered his arm. Paine picked the wrong day to barge into his office. At this point, the judge was in no mood for drama. The Jefferson case had become a circus, and Gianelli knew the jury wanted to wrap this case up and take leave. No one wanted to spend Christmas Eve in court.
"Have you lost your mind?" Gianelli asked Paine.
Paine replied, "Captain O'Donnell and his co-conspirator, Rose Sanchez, should be held in contempt of court."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Gianelli said through clenched teeth.
"Have you read this article?" Paine pointed at the papers Gianelli had knocked from his hand.
Gianelli shook his head. "Court starts in five minutes. I'm not delaying this case anymore over your petty bullshit."
Paine collected the papers and handed them to Gianelli. "I beg of you. You need to see this."
Gianelli snatched the papers from Paine's hand and read them. "What does this have to do with Captain O'Donnell?" Gianelli said. "It's your witness, Specialist Strickland, who's been running his mouth to the press."
"Your Honor, there is classified information in the article," Paine said, "for one, the name of a CIA operative."
Gianelli shook his head. "So what? Besides, if Johnston is his real name, I'm Brad Pitt."
Paine's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Yet, he continued, "There are details about CIA activities at Sangar, all of which are Top Secret. It's all over the internet. My staff tells me the story has been picked up by CNN. There is no way Specialist Strickland could have known about any of this unless Captain O'Donnell told him."
"Or you," Gianelli said. "Or a member of your staff. Or any number of other people who might have gained access to the information. I've seen your setup here. It's not exactly Fort Knox in your office."
Paine began to sputter. "I run a tight ship," he said, "and I resent the implication."
Gianelli slammed his hand on his desk, splashing coffee from his mug. "Aside from the fact that the Army has nothing to do with ships, lose the attitude. You can resent my implication all you want. What you cannot do is prove Captain O'Donnell had anything to do with the story you just shoved in my face. How do I know you can't prove it? Because no one has arrested the man. You do not have any evidence. You have demonstrated a raging hard-on for Captain O'Donnell since this trial began, starting with your infantile display with the papers on my courtroom floor."
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